Emma's Pov
By morning, the mansion didn't feel like the same place.
It was too bright, too pristine. The scent of polish and citrus from the cleaning crew only made it worse — like the house was trying to scrub away the tension of last night. But no matter how spotless the marble floors gleamed, I couldn't shake the echo of Jim's voice.
If you touch her, I'll kill you.
Those words crawled through my head like static, refusing to fade.
I sat at the breakfast table, staring at a plate of untouched pancakes. Damian wasn't here — he'd left early for a meeting — and the silence was deafening. Usually, I appreciated quiet mornings, but now every sound — the soft hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the antique clock — felt amplified, suspicious.
The staff moved around politely, but I caught one of them whispering near the doorway. Their voices dropped the moment I looked up. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe they were just gossiping. But paranoia twisted my stomach.
I pushed the plate away and stood abruptly. "I'll eat later."
The maid blinked, startled. "Yes, Miss Emma."
Miss Emma. Like I belonged here.
I didn't. Not anymore. Not after what I'd heard.
I tried to go about my day, but my mind wouldn't settle. Every creak of the floorboards, every passing shadow, every vibration from my phone made me flinch. I even checked the locks on my door — twice.
By noon, I gave up pretending everything was normal and wandered toward the back hallway where I'd overheard Jim's call the night before. The air there felt colder, heavier.
The corridor ended at the garage door. I hesitated, then turned the handle.
Empty.
The sleek cars sat in a perfect row, gleaming under the white lights. Jim's SUV was gone.
I exhaled shakily and turned to leave — only to hear a faint sound from behind one of the storage cabinets. A click. Then silence.
I froze.
"Hello?" My voice was small, almost swallowed by the echo.
Nothing.
I stepped closer, heart hammering. Maybe it was just the cooling metal. Maybe—
The door creaked open behind me.
"Emma?"
I jumped so hard I almost screamed.
Damian stood at the entrance, brows furrowed. "What are you doing in here?"
My throat went dry. "I— I thought I heard something."
His gaze swept over the garage, assessing. "There's nothing here. You shouldn't wander around alone."
I wanted to argue, to tell him that I wasn't imagining things, but the words tangled in my throat. He looked so calm, so composed — like my fear was just a symptom of exhaustion.
"I couldn't sleep," I murmured instead.
He sighed, softer now. "You've had a rough few days. Why don't you take a break? Go into town if you want. Get some air."
I nodded, pretending to agree. But inside, I was spiraling.
Go into town? Away from the mansion? Or out of his sight?
No. That wasn't fair. Damian hadn't done anything wrong. He'd been kind, patient, protective even. But then again, wasn't that how danger always started — quietly, wrapped in safety until it wasn't?
I forced a smile. "Maybe I will."
He gave a small nod and left, his footsteps fading down the hall.
When he was gone, I stayed frozen for a full minute, staring at the spot where he'd stood. Something about the way he'd said you shouldn't wander alone stuck in my chest. Protective, yes… but also possessive.
What was really going on in this house?
By afternoon, my paranoia had evolved into something almost tangible.
I caught sight of Jim returning through the side gate, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He didn't see me watching from the balcony. He moved like someone who didn't want to be noticed — fast, focused, avoiding eye contact with the staff.
I thought about confronting him, but the memory of his voice — the anger, the threat — stopped me.
If you touch her, I'll kill you.
Who was "you"? Who was "her"?
I paced my room, mind racing. It could've been anyone. Maybe it wasn't even about me. Maybe he was warning someone off a family member, or an ex. Maybe I was reading too much into it.
But why did it feel so personal?
I checked the windows, then the lock again. Then I laughed bitterly at myself — low, nervous. "You're losing it, Emma."
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching. Every time I turned around, I half-expected to see a shadow move where there shouldn't be one.
When my phone buzzed on the nightstand, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
It was an unknown number.
I hesitated before answering. "Hello?"
Silence.
"Who's this?"
Still nothing — just breathing, faint and uneven.
"Jim?" The name slipped out before I could stop it.
The line went dead.
I stood there, phone trembling in my hand, pulse roaring in my ears.
A prank call, maybe. Or a mistake. But I couldn't shake the image of Jim in the hallway, phone pressed to his ear, voice dripping with rage.
I needed to talk to Damian.
Except… what would I even say? "Hey, I think your security guard is threatening someone, possibly me"? He'd think I was paranoid.
Maybe I was.
The mansion felt like a maze that afternoon — endless corridors, locked doors, portraits that seemed to watch me as I passed. Even the air vents hummed like whispers.
When I passed Damian's office, I heard muffled voices inside. His and Jim's.
I stopped, pressing myself against the wall.
"…she's starting to notice," Jim said.
Damian's voice was lower, harder to make out. "Then make sure she doesn't panic."
"I told you this wouldn't stay quiet forever."
"She doesn't need to know everything," Damian snapped. "Not yet."
My blood ran cold.
Not yet.
The words hit me like a punch.
I backed away slowly, trying not to make a sound, but my heel brushed against the wall. The noise was small — barely a scrape — but Jim's voice cut off instantly.
A chair moved.
Panic surged through me. I turned and ran.
Down the hallway, up the stairs, through the corridor that led to my room. My heart thudded against my ribs like it wanted to break free.
I shut the door behind me and locked it, chest heaving.
They were hiding something. I wasn't imagining it. Whatever Damian and Jim were keeping quiet, it involved me.
I paced the room, trying to think. Every possibility was worse than the last. Were they protecting me from someone? Or protecting someone from me?
The phone on the dresser buzzed again. The same unknown number.
I didn't answer this time. I just stared as it rang and rang, then stopped.
Silence.
Then — a soft knock on my door.
My heart nearly stopped.
"Emma?" Damian's voice, calm, steady. Too steady. "Can we talk?"
I didn't move.
"Emma, please," he said again. "You don't have to be afraid."
But the thing was — I was. Terrified, of him, of Jim, of the house itself.
I stepped back, clutching my phone like a weapon. "I'm fine," I called through the door. "I just need to rest."
A pause. Then his voice, quieter. "Okay. Rest, then. But don't lock yourself away from me."
His footsteps receded down the hall.
I stood there long after he left, breathing hard, fighting the urge to cry.
What did he mean by that — don't lock yourself away from me?
By nightfall, exhaustion dragged me down, but I didn't dare sleep. I sat by the window, watching the gardens below. Every light, every moving shadow made me jump.
At some point, I saw Jim crossing the yard again, talking quietly to someone at the gate. I couldn't see who. When he turned toward the house, I ducked out of sight.
My reflection in the glass looked pale and haunted.
"I'm not crazy," I whispered to it. "I know what I heard."
But the silence that answered felt like doubt.
And as the hours slipped by, I realized something terrifying — I wasn't just scared of the house anymore.
I was scared of what I might find out.
Because if Damian and Jim were keeping secrets from me… maybe I didn't want to know the truth after all.